A Tribute to Frank: Remembering a Man I Barely Knew but Saw Every Day
Frank, you were one of a kind!
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It’s summertime, which means it’s time for reruns. This was previously published in 2023 but since we have so many new community members, here it is again-new and improved. Enjoy, friends!
Every morning and afternoon, I walk my dog.
We’re creatures of habit, Polly and I. Our regular stroll consists of making a loop around the playground, walking past St. Peter’s Church, up the street to the lake, and back.
I am a multitasker. While walking, I listen to a podcast while looking for dogs.
Polly, a pit mix, doesn’t make a good first impression. Although she likes to play with fellow canines, her first inclination is to react with a terrifying growl and lunge.
Normally we encounter few people besides dog walkers, but recently, I spot a man on our route.
When he sees me, he crosses to our side of the street. I steer Polly closer to the church.
I grew up in Philadelphia. When a stranger makes an aggressive move like this, my fight-or-flight kicks in.
The man slows as he approaches.
He’s wearing dark-framed glasses and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He’s too old to have that much hair, I think. In a micro-second, I absorb more: hunched shoulders, thin build, and button-down collared shirt.
He’s right beside me now, this man and his burning cigarette. He says something I can’t make out. Diverting my eyes, I give a quick nod and keep walking, tucking my head.
I don’t want to offend and I don’t want to engage.
Every woman’s dilemma.
I turn to ensure he hasn’t doubled back, but he is gone.
On our walk the next day, the man and I are on the same street at the same time. Again. When I see him, I curse under my breath, pulling the leash tighter. My eyes stay down and I quicken my pace.
I am angry at this man for taking the safety of my walks from me. Now, I have to be on the lookout not only for dogs but strangers as well.
The next day, I see him a block away walking towards a grand old Victorian home. I have passed this house many times on the walk. People of all shapes and sizes hang out on the wrap-around porch, chatting, rocking, and smoking.
None look like they belong to each other. The rooming house is one of New Jersey’s required low-income houses in our town.
The people on the porch remind me of another life before COVID-19, when I taught yoga to people with mental health issues. Many suffered from dual diagnoses of addiction and mental illness, and could not hold down full-time jobs or live alone.
They attended a behavioral health facility and participated in activities like my chair yoga class. Day programs kept them safe and supervised, with trained counselors monitoring their living situations and medications.
The best part of working there? We shared friendship and connection. When living sober and stable lives, the program participants were fairly functional, and enjoyed engaging in light-hearted banter.
We had fun stretching and looked forward to seeing each other each week for yoga. Most of all, the class loved to groan at my corny jokes.
Working with them made my heart sing. When the pandemic came, I lost the best job ever.
Now my attitude softens when I see the man on my walk.
I wave and ask how he’s doing. Even though we’ve run into each other several times, he introduces himself like it’s our first meeting.
“Hi, I’m Frank! What’s your name again?”
Apologetic, Frank explains that cancer causes him to forget stuff. I tell him not to worry and that my name is hard to remember.
The days of summer march into fall. I no longer bump into Frank on walks. Now I only see him when he’s sitting on the porch of the Victorian. As soon as he spots me, he takes a quick drag of his cigarette, jumps up, and makes a B-line toward the porch railing where he can speak to me.
Our familiar dance begins.
“Hi, I’m Frank! I forget your name because I have cancer.”
I take my cue and say my name. Satisfied, he pivots back to his seat on the porch.
One day, I can see from a block away that he is waiting at the top of the steps. At first, he hesitates but then greets me by my name.
“Hi, uh-Ilona.”
He stumbles but has managed it. Smiling, I congratulate him on his win.
At our next rendezvous, he’s forgotten my name again.
The end of autumn looms, and the ocean air turns wet and cold. Fewer people are in their spots on the porch. A new woman waits on the corner at the Victorian house for a ride most mornings.
Polly is the catalyst for a friendship with Carol.
As we approach the house, Carol shouts “Hi Polly!” ignoring me altogether. Since Polly never answers back, I return the greeting.
After a few days of seeing us, I grow on Carol because after saying hi to Polly, she asks how I’m doing and whether I enjoyed my Thanksgiving. I am thrilled to be on equal footing with my dog and worthy of Carol’s attention.
Her excitement about the holiday is palpable. Carol has festooned herself with turkey merch from the dollar store. As a loud talker, Carol proudly announces that she has had a wonderful Thanksgiving at the VFW.
As a new friendship with Carol sprouts, I realize that I’ve not seen Frank on the porch for several weeks. I ask Carol if she knows where he is. She pushes her glasses up her nose and leans in to report that Frank has cancer and is in the hospital.
I’m sad but glad that he’s someplace getting care.
The next day, Carol paces excitedly on the corner.
She waves the tip of her cane and motions me near. In her booming monotone, she states matter-of-factly that Frank has died.
“Oh no!” I blurt. My mind goes blank.
“What happened?”
“Frank had cancer,” she says.
I berate myself for not knowing how sick Frank was. I didn’t know he was dying.
Despite our almost daily interactions, I didn’t know Frank at all.
What could I have done for him? Questions weren’t part of our routine. Now questions are all I have.
How had he ended up living in the Victorian? Had he ever married or raised a family? Had he felt happy and loved? Did he have friends in the big old house?
There are no answers coming.
I can only hope Frank died peacefully with someone to hold his hand.
I’m glad I met him and for our brief time together. I’ll miss seeing him on my walks.
I’m sorry I didn’t make a good first impression, Frank. Rest in Peace.
Thank you for making it all the way down here. Below is why I had no time to write something new. Babysitting these two is so fun!
What a delightful and engaging post, Ilona. It unfolds like the pace of your walks. You bring the inner world to life in ways that are easy to relate to!
I love the way you write! While reading this I wish for you to write a novel someday. A book to hold with thick pages that have raw edges. The cover would draw us in without a word needed. I see your photo on the back cover with your bright smile and cool glasses. Your bio would be somehow woven into the story you would tell. xoxxo